


death has his finger in you

by havisham



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breaking Up & Making Up, Crack Treated Seriously, M/M, Moral Bankruptcy, Necromancy, Necrophilia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-31
Updated: 2016-03-31
Packaged: 2018-05-30 05:55:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6411520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/havisham/pseuds/havisham
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon comes back <i>sort of</i> right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	death has his finger in you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sath](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sath/gifts).



> Written for B2MeM 2016, using the 2012 Bingo cards "First Lines" and " Sons of Fëanor", with the prompts i18: _When shall we meet again in thunder, lightning, or in rain?_ \- Macbeth and B1: Maedhros and Fingon. And also a 2010 prompt, Hithlum - _"We have art to save ourselves from the truth."_ \-- Friedrich Nietzsche.

Maedhros had learned much from his long imprisonment in Angband. That knowledge he tried his best to forget, but when he was presented with the body of Fingon, his skin still warm, Maedhros knew what to do. And he did it, though once he would have shrunk from it. 

*

Fingon’s surviving eye opened. His mouth opened to a silent scream. 

Maedhros frowned. He would have to work on that. 

*

How Gorthaur would have been proud of his pupil! 

*

He was, however, not a miracle-worker by any means. 

Stitching up Fingon’s head (which the balrogs had smashed like a melon) was hard going and the end result left much to be desired. But Fingon looked at him while he did it, expressionless except for the now permanent smile that now spread across his haggard cheeks. 

*

He kept Fingon close, in his tent. No one -- no servant, no brother -- was allowed in. Only Maglor tried, but Maedhros knew ways of keeping him out. No, it was more of an issue of keeping Fingon in. 

As soon as he could stand, he had escaped twice and Maedhros had had a rather hard time bringing him back. Meanwhile, the woods surrounding their camp began to take a sinister air. Rumors flew that strange creatures -- ghouls and the like -- were spotted lurking in the dark. Birds would fall from the sky, apparently struck dead from sheer weirdness. 

Maedhros would sigh aloud while listening to the nervous reports of his underlings. “Set fire to the trees if you fear the shadows,” he said as soon as the report was finished. Then, upon reconsidering, he said, “On the other hand, don’t. We can’t waste the fuel.” 

*

He tried to explain to Fingon, tried to tell him why he had done what he had. “Do you not see? I only did what I had to,” he muttered, on the edge of sleep. “Did we not promise that we would never let fate separate us again?” 

Fingon stirred, giving him a venomous look. 

“Oh,” Maedhros said, glaring back at him. “You have conditions _now_ , do you?” 

*

Later, he would whisper. “I love you, I could not let you go. Did you not do the same for me? Why should I respect your wishes when you did not respect mine?” 

Fingon shuffled toward him. Maedhros kept his eyes closed when Fingon was near, but he could always feel it. Not just in the smell of decay that always clung to Fingon now, and not the cool skitter of Fingon's fingers (miraculously uncrushed) against Maedhros' body.

 _Not the same_ , Fingon wrote on Maedhros’ side, his nail scratching against the skin. _You know._

“I know of no such thing,” was Maedhros’ stubborn reply. He turned away from Fingon and pulled the blanket over his head. 

_If you ever loved me._

_Let me go._

But Maedhros hardened his heart, long ago. 

"Never," he said, "never."

*

Maglor lurked on the edges of the settlement and wondered what he should do. That he should do something was obvious. His eldest brother, never quite right since he had returned from Angband, had now given up all pretense of normalcy. There was something strange happening in that tent of his, and Maglor needed to see what it was. 

So, his plan was simple. There was a cask of wine that they had recently liberated from some unfortunate Doriathrim. It was heavily fortified with spices and thus, the taste of the added sleeping draught was hardly noticeable. Maglor had poured a drop or two of it into Maedhros’ wine cup during dinner one night and watched with satisfaction as Maedhros drained the cup dry. 

Then, it was only a matter of waiting and getting ready. Maglor always kept a knife tucked into his belt, though tonight he also took a length of rope with him, as well as another, larger knife concealed at his side. 

A quarter past midnight and it was time. Maglor stole into Maedhros’ tent and found his brother in bed, still and dreaming dark dreams. He found everything neat, organized and familiar, save for a large wooden trunk -- more a coffin than a trunk, in truth -- but what use would an Elf have for a coffin? It was stuck in the corner beside the bed, and it was plainly wrought and obviously new. The smell of pine still clung to its boards. 

It was also locked. 

Maglor tried to pick at it with his knife, but it was no use. Finally, he went to the other side and attacked the hinges. He loosened it enough so that the lid jerked open. When he lifted the lid, Maglor wished suddenly that he hadn’t. 

Inside, wrapped in chains was -- Maglor leaned down, almost swooning as he did so. The smell had hit him before the sight had. But he knew that face, slashed and stitched as it was. “Findekáno?” 

“Cut my throat,” Fingon said, his voice like the scrape of metal against bone. Maglor loosened the chains around him and Fingon rose, shedding them loose as if they were threads. Unthinking and not wishing to do so, Maglor plunged a knife into Fingon’s throat, but his hand were shaking and he succeeded only in nicking at Fingon’s chin. 

Fingon coughed and shook what was left of his head. He looked exhausted, defeated.

Before he could do anything else, a shadow fell upon Maglor.

"Makalaurë," said Maedhros pleasantly, "what are you doing?"

“I could say the same…” Maglor began to say.

But Maedhros looked past him and said, reproachfully, “You did not speak to _me._ ” 

Fingon laughed, a sound that Maglor desperately wanted to remember. It struck at him, deeply, dark and biting. Maedhros moved toward him but Fingon had stolen the knife from Maglor’s hands and slashed at him and was out of the tent before either of the brothers could stop him. 

He disappeared into the dark and Maglor called for the soldiers to follow him. 

But Maedhros stayed Maglor’s hand, murmuring that it would be no use. 

 

*  
It was some years later in the snow-packed forests of Doriath that Maedhros saw Fingon again. He had not been thinking of Fingon at all, or his great mistake in bringing his cousin back. Instead, his mind was consumed with sorrow and repentance for the fate of Dior’s sons. It was a feeling that felt so new to him that he suspected that it was false, made up in his mind to cover the great absence he felt for the rest of his -- crimes. 

He had been walking without a direction for several hours now, his throat raw from shouting the little princes’ names. At times, he thought he could hear them, the high-pitched sounds of children’s voices. But no -- a bird, enormous and black -- crashed through the brush. It swooped low, directly at his head. 

Maedhros ducked down and unsheathed his sword -- but the bird had gone by the time he had it out. A branch above him, too heavy with snow, fell and filled up the air with particles of ice. When that cleared, Maedhros saw in front of him a figure -- terribly thin and drawn. His eyes widened. He would have recognized him anywhere.

“Findekáno, you are looking well,” Maedhros said softly as Fingon slammed him against a tree, dislodging more snow into the air. Somewhere along the line he had gotten hold of an eyepatch -- which was not as menacing as it could be, though whoever had made it had also embedded it with jewels. Noldor-made, then. 

Maedhros choked down a wild desire to laugh -- although perhaps he ought not, with Fingon’s hand around his neck. His voice was sweet when he said, “Come to finish it off, my love?” 

“You will not die.” 

“Ha.” 

“Not by my hand.” Fingon let him go and took a step back. 

Maedhros took a step forward. He grabbed Fingon’s collar and pulled him close. “What have you been doing?” 

“Following you.” 

“And?” Maedhros looked at him expectantly. 

Fingon shrugged his shoulders, looking pensive. “You will not find it. Not the stone, nor the children.” 

“You don't know that,” Maedhros said sharply. 

Fingon fixed him a dead-eyed look. “They were mortal children. You are too late.” 

Maedhros grit his teeth together, he could hear them grind together. He forced himself to say: “The Silmaril, then.” 

Fingon raised a brow. “You think that you, a murderer and a necromancer, could be fit to touch what was hallowed by the Valar?” 

“I have an oath,” Maedhros said stubbornly. 

Fingon leaned in and kissed him hard, a kiss that was almost a bite. Maedhros pulled him closer and began to yank at Fingon’s clothes, trying to touch skin. Fingon’s nails dug into his skin. Freezing cold. Maedhros bit off a cry of pleasure and tried to breath calmly. He wrapped his arms around Fingon’s thin shoulders.  


“Come back with me,” Maedhros murmured against Fingon’s jaw. Fingon tensed. 

“No,” he said, and the sound reverberated through Maedhros’ head. The cold seemed to intensify around them. And soon Maedhros felt the cold reach in between the chinks of his armor and he winced, realizing at once that he had been stabbed. 

“ _Must_ you?”

Fingon bowed and pressed one last kiss on Maedhros’ lips. Then he fled, leaving Maedhros livid and bleeding against the tree.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks Sath for betaing this in the form of Chuck Tingle. Very inspiring.


End file.
